CHAPTER XIV WHICH GIVES A NEARER VIEW OF THE NEIGHBOR CALLED "SHIFLESS"

With the events which closed the last chapter the three soldiers had been more than a year on the mountain. They had become thoroughly settled in their delusion, and more contented in their way of living than they would have thought it possible, in the beginning, ever to become.

The long war had come to an end in a way of its own, and without any regard for the messages flagged from Upper Bald. The soldiers of both armies had been disbanded, and the good news had found its way into the mountain settlements at about the time the bear had discovered the bee-tree.

Far and near the union outliers had come in from their hiding-places among the rocks, and were gradually settling their differences with their Confederate neighbors, in which delicate process there was just enough shooting to prevent peace from settling too abruptly among the mountains. In Cashiers valley there was scarcely any difference of opinion, and the old postmaster in the Cove, who had attended strictly to his duties and never spied on his neighbors, was not molested under the new order of things, or even deprived of his office.

On the very evening when the fires were first lighted under the charcoal pit, it happened that two men were driving along a stony road which led into the valley over a spur of Little Terrapin. All day the rain had been falling steadily, and the team showed unmistakable signs of weariness, the sodden ears of the mule flapping dejectedly outward, and the steer halting to rest on every shelf of the descent, as the light wagon creaked and splashed down the mountain in full view of the wooded face of old Whiteside, now relieved boldly against a twilight sky which showed signs of clearing. The two men sat crouched on the wet seat, with a border of sodden bedquilt showing under their rubber coats, their wool hats dripping down their shining backs, and the barrels of their guns pointing to right and left out of the dry embrace in which the locks rested. As they mounted the next ridge, the major was getting a little comfort out of a spluttering pipe, and Sandy was looking hopefully between the horns of the steer at the patch of clearing sky.

"There's some humans a-outlyin' on old Whiteside to-night," said Sandy. "I 'lowed them critters had all come in."

"What yer talkin' 'bout?" growled the major.

"I'm a-sayin'," said the other, "that there's somebody campin' on the mountain. It 'pears to be gone now, but I certainly seen a light up thar."

The major only grunted as if the matter were of no consequence, and then both relapse into silence as the creaking wheels jolt over the rocks and grind down the mountain behind the bracing cattle. The form of the steer grows whiter in the gathering darkness. The men are evidently familiar with the country, for presently they turn off the big road into a cart-track, the sides of the wagon brushing against the dripping bushes as they push through the darkness with the fewest possible words. Now and then they see a light in the settlement, glimmering damply through the trees, and dancing and disappearing before them, as the wagon lurches and rolls upon the weary animals struggling for a foothold on the shelving rocks. At last they trot out on a sandy level and pass a log barn, where a group of men are playing cards by a fire. A little farther on a low line of lights becomes a row of windows casting a ruddy glow under the dripping trees, and shining out upon the very wood-pile where, according to Philip, the man he had named "Shifless" was wont to sit and watch the milking.

"Hello, inside!" cried the major, hailing the house. "Is Elder Long to home?"

"Well, he ain't fur off," replied a tall woman in a calico sunbonnet and a homespun gown, who came out on the side porch, shading her eyes with her hand. "Jest light out o' yer hack an' come in to the fire, an' I'll carry the critters round to the stable."

Sandy and the major clambered out of the wagon upon the chip dirt, with a polite inquiry after the news, to which the woman, as she seated herself on the bedquilt and gathered up the reins, replied that "the best news she knowed of was that the war was done ended."

The travelers walked stiffly into the house, carrying their guns, besides which the major held a cow-skin knapsack by the straps, which he dropped on the floor inside the door. Both men said "Howdy" as they stalked over to the fireplace, peering from under their hats at the shadowy forms of a number of women sitting in the uncertain light, who answered "Howdy" in return; and then, while the men took off their rubber coats, one woman, bolder than the others, stirred the fire and thrust a pine-knot behind the backlog.

Presently the ruddy flames leaped up in the stone chimney and picked out the brass buttons on two butternut-and-gray uniforms, and revealed the faces of the women, evidently not over-pleased at what they saw. There was an awkward silence in the room for a moment, and then a tall man entered, followed by two others, and then a party of three. Each man carried his gun, and each said "Howdy," to which the strangers responded; but the conversation showed no signs of being general until the elder came in, unarmed, as became his peaceful calling.

His gun and powder-horn, however, were handy in a rack over the door, and as soon as his benevolent face appeared in the firelight the man Sandy advanced from the corner behind the chimney and held out his hand.

"Ye may have disremembered me, elder, in three years' time," said Sandy, rather sheepishly.

"I hain't forgot ye," said the elder, gravely, stepping back a pace and crossing his hands behind his back. "I hain't forgot ye. Been in the Confederate army, I reckon,"—at which remark there was a rustle among the elder's friends and a murmur from the women.

"Jes so," said Sandy, not at all disturbed by his cold reception; "an' likewise my friend the major—Major McKinney."

"Sir to you," said the major, with a wave of his hand.

"We're a-studyin'," said Sandy, "'bout campin' down in this yer valley—"

"We're all o' one mind here, Sandy Marsh," exclaimed. Mrs. Long, who had come in from the stable. "We're union to a man."

"That's what we be in Cashiers," snapped one of the neighbors, who was fondling his gun; and then there followed a little movement of boots and rifle-stocks on the floor, which caused the major to get upon his feet with the intention of making an explanation. There was a hostile flash in his eye, however, which Elder Long observed, and stretching out his long arm, he pointed to the major's chair.

"Now set down, comrade, do," said the elder, and then, to the others: "These two men are my guests to-night. They'll have the best that the house affords, an' ye'd better be layin' the supper-table, mother. We'll feed them an' their critters, an' welcome, an' when day comes they'll move on. Like mother put hit, we're of one way of thinkin' in Cashiers. No offense, gentlemen, but hit's plumb certain we shouldn't agree."

Under the advice of the elder, the men stacked their weapons together, the long rifles with the army guns; and after supper was over the whole party returned to the fire in an amiable and talkative mood, but with a perfect understanding that the two Confederates would move on in the morning.

This point having been settled, the travelers were listened to with the interest the stranger always receives in remote settlements where new faces and new ideas seldom come; and the men of the valley, who had been sullen and suspicious before they had broken bread, now laughed at the droll adventures of the major and vied with him in story-telling on their own account.

The women had mostly been silent listeners up to the time when Sandy mentioned the light he had seen on the crest of Whiteside Mountain, as they came over Little Terrapin. The major hastened to express a doubt of his companion having seen anything of the kind, which the other as stoutly contended he had seen with his eyes open, and that the light was not lightning or a stray star among the trees, but real fire.

"Ye needn't waste time studyin' 'bout that light, Sandy Marsh," said Mrs. Long, throwing the last stick on the fire, which was only a heap of glowing embers. "'T ain't worth the candle, since everybody in Cashiers knows that mountain is harnted."

"And has been ever since the little old man died up thar all by hisself," chimed in little Miss Bennett.

"I ain't a great believer in harnts," said the elder, "but if you viewed anything like fire up thar, hit certainly wa'n't built by human hands, for there ain't no possible way for a human to git there."

"There's the bridge Josiah Woodring built," Sandy ventured to say. "I crossed over to hit myself once afore the war-time."

"Hit fell into the gorge of its own weight an' rottenness, more 'n a year back," said the elder, "an' hit's certain that no man has set foot on the top of Whiteside since."

The fresh stick, which was only a branch, burned up and threw a flickering light on the grave faces about the shadowy room, in the midst of a general silence which was broken by the harsh voice of the mistress of the house.

"Hit's obleeged to be the harnts, an' comes 'long o' the bones o' the little old man not havin' had Christian burial up yonder."

"You see," said the elder, "his takin' off wa'n't regular, bein' altogether unbeknownst, otherwise I'd 'a' seen he had gospel service said over him that would 'a' left him layin' easy in his grave."

"Which hit stands to reason he can't do now," put in Mrs. Long, "under that heathen inscription they do say is writ on his headstone. If he really wanted to be forgot, he'd better left word with Jo-siah to bury him without so much as markin' the place; an' everybody knows that unmarked graves holds uneasy spirits."

"Accordin' to that doctrine, Mis' Long," said the major, "whole regiments of harnts 'u'd be marchin' an' counter-marchin' over some battle-fields I know."

"'T ain't them that has plenty o' company that gits lonely an' uneasy," replied the woman, very promptly, "but such as lays by themselves on the tops of the mountains or anywheres in the unknown kentry."

"Old Whiteside hain't never brought luck to anybody that owned hit," said a piping voice from a niche behind the fireplace, where Granny White sat in her accustomed rocker. The old woman was the mother of the mistress of the house, and an authority far and near on all things supernatural. Her white frilled cap was just visible behind the stones of the jamb, and even the strangers listened with respect to what she had to say, in the ghostly silence and in the half-light of the dying embers.

"I've lived in the shadder of hit for eighty year, an' ther' ain't many that's been atop o' old Whiteside. Arter Josiah built the bridge, the Hooper horned critters lay across the gorge one summer, an' two o' the best cows lost their calves. That must 'a' been in '50. Hay, Larkin, son—'50, wa'n't hit?"

"That's true, Aunt Lucy," said the elder; "an' a great mystery hit was at the time. Some suspicioned that the little old man might 'a' killed 'em for meat, but such of us as went up found his cabin empty, an' we could no more find him than if he had been a harnt hisself."

This statement was received in silence, which was presently broken by the garrulous voice of the old woman.

"Woe! woe! unto them that ventures onto the dangerous mountains. The last man knowed to have set foot on Whiteside was Hiram Kitchen, an' let me tell ye the harnts had a hand in burnin' Hiram Kitchen's cabin on Christmas day an' totin' him off along with his prisoners. Hit was a plain judgment ag'in' disbelief. Hay, Larkin, son? You're l'arned in Scripture."

The elder only gazed at the feathery embers.

"Wherever the old man o' the mountain is a-layin'," continued granny, "he ain't restin' easy, an' ther' might be a reason for hit, too. He had plenty o' silver—plenty o' silver." Her voice sank to a husky whisper. "An' hit's a monstrous lonely place up yonder—somebody might 'a' murdered him. Hay, Larkin, son? Somebody might 'a' done that."

The old woman's words had a powerful effect on the simple crowd assembled in the shadowy room. They were prone to superstitious beliefs; and if the two strangers, who had seen more of the world and had fought in real battles, were less impressed than the others, they kept a discreet silence, in which the elder rose to his feet and uttered the evening prayer, not forgetting to ask that they might be guarded from unseen enemies and from invisible dangers.

In the morning, after the two Confederates had driven away with their mule-and-ox team in search of a more congenial neighborhood, the elder seated himself on the woodpile to smoke his morning pipe and watch the milking.

"Mother," said he, after a while, when his wife came forward between the well-filled pails, "I don't believe in harnts burnin' houses, but thar must 'a' been some spirit information pre-ju-dicial to Hiram Kitchen that I never could git through my head. The last thing I did afore I rode off to preach Granny Taylor's funeral sermon was to go up on the hill yonder an' satisfy myself that everything was quiet around Hiram's. I never let on to the postmaster that there was any Yankee prisoners around, an' if he knew of hit, he kept hit to hisself. Hit certainly looks, mother, as if the spirits had a hand in hit, an' a bad business hit was."

"That's hit, Larkin, son," said Aunt Lucy, who leaned on her staff by the fence among the great purple cabbage-heads. "When there's mischief goin' on ye can depend on hit the harnts has a hand in hit. An' hit's a fair mountain, too," she continued, shading her eyes with her hand and gazing up at the wooded mass of Whiteside, behind which the sun was rising. "Hit's fair to view, an' innocent-appearin', but there's few has set foot on the top o' hit."

The mountain, which harbored no spirits other than the guileless souls of the three deluded soldiers, was indeed fair to look upon, towering above its fellows and above the sweet valley of Cashiers. A curtain of purple haze softened the rich greens of the forest which clothed the mountain on the valley side, and now, after the rain, white clouds of vapor were beginning to puff out as if huge concealed boilers were generating steam behind the trees.